


Willing and Able

by CozyCryptidCorner



Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Asrai, Exophilia, F/M, Femdom, First Time, Gentle Sex, Pegging, Pirates, Smut, Water Fae, fae
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24479797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: There's a pouty fae who is desperate to leave the stifling misery of his kingdom and escape and loveless arranged marriage. You're sure you can find a use or two for him.
Relationships: Asrai/Reader, Fae/Human, Fae/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 138





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i will likely end up writing a very smutty conclusion, please enjoy this first part for the time being

There is a particular taste to the mist swirling around the beach, salty, new, the earth so still that you feel like it’s… off. The water of the ocean gently laps at the sand, though the waves are barely anything more than a small, muted ripple. Neither animals or bugs make any calls, an eerie silence descending on the landscape, save for the noises you and your crewmates make as you pull the rowboat to shore.

Your legs are wet, right up to your thighs, boots sloshing with an uncomfortable amount of water as you finally make it to the edge of the land, the oddness of the atmosphere slowly crawling under your skin, making you nervous. Quietly, you let out a breath, then turn to your crew members. “Same as we talked about on the ship. Scout only for food, do not talk with anyone here without coming to me first. We don’t know who to trust.”

A small murmuring of _yes, captain_ lets you know that they hear and understand, so you have everyone split up, directing each group a certain direction. You don’t need any of them getting lost, so no one is allowed to stray far from the coast, especially since this is an unknown island. Leaving two of your gunslingers alone to guard the little rowboat, you head closer to the edge of the foreboding forest, large, green trees rustling quietly when you approach. There, you see a thin dirt path leading into the dark, so you take the liberty of moving deeper into the island.

The battle with the navy has left your crew in nasty shape, you need to find something to put into their stomachs. Hungry personnel tends to lead to unpleasant situations, and you’d appreciate avoiding those until you can get your people back to base. You take a moment to sit, pulling your shoes off and letting the water slosh out, then slip them back on. It’s still uncomfortable, but better than doing nothing.

There’s a biting chill to the air, even though it should be midday. Still, only the _barest hint_ of sunlight peeks out from the foggy air, showing you the vaguest outline of the path, and after a few more minutes of nothing, you’re tempted to call it quits and head back to the beach. If there is a village tucked firmly into the center of the island, it might be too much trouble for you to go looking for it.

Turning around, you almost run into a man.

And that is strange, because you’re typically very, _very_ good at discerning when someone is sneaking up on you.

He’s not particularly remarkable looking in his dull-colored, nondescript clothing, with a hood pulled up to his forehead. And he’s staring at you, his eyes wide, like he’s looking at a ghost.

You realize that maybe, with your rugged, choppy appearance, gun on your holster, machete in hand, blood staining the shirt that you haven’t bothered changing since the battle, he might feel a little threatened. Slowly, you lower the weapon, giving him what you _hope_ is a decently friendly smile. You don’t want him running off screaming to the navy, because then you’d have to kill him, and you’re awfully tired of taking lives today, so you try to reassure him that you mean no harm.

“Hey,” you speak softly.

He’s slim, taller than you, but visually soft, you know you’d be able to take him on if it comes to that. Slightly shakily, he folds his pale, slim fingers together, and you can see his brain processing what’s happening. “Hello.”

A strange, weird pause.

You clear your throat, trying not to make any sudden movements, “Hi, um, I was just looking around for some fresh water and food for me and my crew. We, uh,” you glance down at the hastily tied bandage on your arm that was already coming free, “hit a rough patch a few miles out.”

“You’re human,” he says, almost in awe.

“Last I checked,” you say, trying not to sound too impatient.

“Is your crew human, too?” He asks,

“For the most part,” you say, slowly, “yes.”

He looks downright _fascinated_ over that revelation, and before you have a chance to prod further, says, “you have a ship?”

You bristle, but do not sense any sort of malice coming from him. No, just a disturbing amount of… excitement, and that somehow also worries you. “Yes,” you say, slowly, not wanting to get into too much detail.

“Do you charter people?” He asks.

Ah, you see where this is going. “For the right price.”

He pauses, a bit of wind blown out of his sails. “What price are you seeking?”

“Gold, preferably. I’m willing to barter, though.” You look him up and down, more closely, eyes narrowed. What kind of person would need a sudden departure, and on that thought, what’s he even doing out here looking like some kind of… fancy vagrant?

“We would have to leave now,” he says, with a tone of urgency in his voice, “if I return for money, someone might suspect me of leaving.”

“So there is a village around here,” you say, turning around to see if you can find any hints of civilization. “Can you point me in their direction?”

“You don’t want to go there,” he says, frantic. “There’s a stigma against humans- you wouldn’t be welcome.”

“Why not.”

“All outsiders are… um, forbidden.”

There’s something else, something that you’re suspicious about. You don’t know what it is, yet, but you’re willing to indulge him in the idea that you’ll let him on your ship, even without knowing a lick about him. “Fine, what can you offer for me to give you safe passage?”

“I- uh,” he’s thinking now, brow furrowed, and you’re almost showing your impatience as he wastes your time. “I can… do stuff. On the ship, I mean.”

“Give me your hands,” you say impatiently, looking over his smooth, blemishless skin. “You’ve never worked a day in your life, have you?”

“I’m a fast learner,” he says, almost indignantly.

“I’m certain,” you say dryly, not entirely believing him, “but learning fast doesn’t mean you’re physically capable of work.”

He stares down at his hands like he’s never been so impossibly inconvenienced in his life by his own self. Another moment passes, still startling silent, and you’re just about to move around him before he says, quietly, “I can make clean water.”

You stop.

“Clean water, you say,” you muse, crossing your arms.

“Yes,” he sees that you’re listening, and that seems to get his hopes up. “Drinking water, straight from almost anything liquid.”

You mull the possibility over. No, it’s not unheard of, but it’s an incredibly rare trait that usually lands people with the ability one only the _best,_ high paying ships, and that’s a luxury you and your scrappy crew can’t afford. Charting someone only on the promise of clean water? Unheard of. Most ships pay those who can travel with them.

“Okay,” you say slowly, “let’s say that you can- which is something you’ll have to prove before I let you on my ship. Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere but here.”

He’s desperate, which means that you can take advantage of that. Not too much, though, the last thing you need is an angry member of your crew capable of poisoning everyone with the one thing necessary for basic survival.

“Fine.” You gesture for him to follow you. “We’ll test your skills on the shore, then, if it’s satisfactory, we’ll discuss your end of the deal.”

He seems remarkably happy, following almost uncomfortably close as you make your way back through the forest. Luckily for you, it seems that most of the scouting groups have also made their way to the rowboat, most of their hands empty. The moment you’re within their eyeshot, you see them tense, eyes piercing the figure behind you, both you hold your hands up to communicate that there’s nothing to worry about.

Two of your best scouts have arms full of large, leafy greens, which you suppose probably would taste unfortunately horribly bitter, but will at least keep some of you going. The cook is known for their miracles, anyway, so they might be able to do something with it.

“Is this all?” You ask, struggling to hide your disappointment.

“It’s what we could find without venturing too far into the forest, captain, but…” your scout eyes the newcomer, “it seems that there’s a village.”

“One where we will be unwelcome to, according to him,” you say vaguely, though you’re giving them the same amount of information that you know. “But the good news is that he claims to be able to purify water, and he’ll do it in exchange for safe passage to our destination.”

There’s a shifting ripple moving through your crew, and you don’t blame them because that’s a _tall_ fucking claim. To prove it, though, you take a couple dozen sloshing steps into the ocean, tugging him along, until the both of you are waist-deep in water.

“Do it,” you demand, glancing back at your crew to make sure they’re watching.

“Um,” he shifts, eyeing your crew nervously. “Is there something I can put the water in?”

At your hard stare, everyone pats their pockets down, but no one was holding an empty flask or stray goblet for him to use, so with a defeated sigh, he cups his hands, settling it below the surface of the mirror-like surface of the ocean. His eyes are closed in concentration as he raises his arms back up, and a soft, warm blue glow slowly illuminates his fingers as whatever magic he uses cleanses the salt and infection. After a moment, his eyes open again, and the glow is gone, and a puddle of perfectly clear water in his hands.

Oh, right. You’re going to have to test this.

“Christ,” you mutter, raising his hands to your lips and sip. The water is cold, despite the heat rising to your face, and go figure, absolutely no trace of salt. Calmly, you take another sip from his hands, letting the water swish around in your mouth for a moment, just to be sure. Then, as a precaution to make certain he’s not fucking with you, you dip two of your fingers into the sea and lick. Augh, yes, that’s salty as hell, there’s no way that he can pull a fast one on you like this. You turn to your comrades. “It’s clean.”

“So we let him onboard?” One of your navigators asks.

“Yeah, we’ll put him to work filtering out clean water.” As you say this, you notice the last of your scouts approaching, though they are empty-handed for a few roots and such. “Everyone, get onto the rowboat.”

He seems pleased, at least, but not the kind of _smug_ pleased that you loathe. Like he’s deeply relieved, as though you’ve saved him from some horrendous fate. He sits, almost primly, in the center of the boat as you and the rest of your crew work to move back from the island.

Steadily, inevitably, the waves slowly kick back up, as though slowly breaking through a damn, and the mist of the island recedes to reveal a bright, blue, almost cloudless sky. The fog hangs over the island like a thick, viscous shield, obscuring anything within from passing sailors. No one sane would want to attempt to traverse such an unmappable area unless they’re ridiculously desperate, like you.

He’s tugging at his hood, pushing it back as the sun begins to radiate down harder, and you don’t blame him. Without going back to get anything else to wear, he’s unfortunately overdressed for the grueling work you plan to put him through. The energy he’ll have to output is ridiculously high, especially to keep up with the demands of a full ship and its crew, even more so because a portion of your freshwater barrels had been spilled and toppled by the cannon fire.

Your ship is in bad shape, it’s easy to see the damage as the rowboat approaches, burn marks along the wood marking where some dicks from the navy went ahead and tossed over some flaming cocktails. Glancing over at your new passenger to gauge his reaction, he seems none the wiser about the seemingly dire state of everything, and instead looks over at you, a spark of unrecognizable joy in his eyes.

Once all of you are on the deck, you have one of your crew fill a bucket full of seawater, then direct your newcomer to clean, so they all see. So long as they understand that he has a vital part to play, they’ll be less likely to give him the almost ritualistic hazing that most new, low-end recruits end up saddled with. However, even as your best navigator takes her first sip of water, you know that they’re still going to rag on him.

“He can sleep with the rest of the crew,” you say in passing, waving in his general direction.

“Did you make an official deal?” Your second asks, their brow furrowed.

“Not yet, but he seems willing and able to filter water. I figure once we get to our destination, he can either stay on as a crewmember as long as he wants, or leave once we reach the ports.”

“I can write up an airtight contract,” your second offers. “He looks fae, he should be biologically required to adhere to it.”

You look over at him, and you find that your second is right. Long, pointed ears extend out from his neatly braided hair, his eyes are just a tad too large and innocent-seeming for someone roughly your age. His odd fascination towards your species makes you wonder if he’s seen your kind before.

“That’ll be great.”

The injured are not in exceptional shape, but with clean water, at least, gives them a much better chance to make it through than otherwise. As he helps you haul a few buckets down to the lower deck, you ask, knowing full well the fae’s common abhorrence towards names, “is there something you want to be called by?”

He thinks it over for a moment. “You said something earlier, that I was… um, willing, and able?”

“Yes?”

His movements are smooth and graceful, his posture so perfect that you wonder where he learned it. “I like those words. Willing?”

“Um, what about Abel?” You suggest instead, placing the buckets down on a table.

Those bright, brilliantly blue eyes become unfocused, if only for a moment. “Yes,” he says, faintly, “Abel will do nicely.”

Your crew is slow to trust him, and you hardly blame them. There’s something just… a tad bit uncanny about him and his behavior, the way he stares at things, unblinkingly, for just a little longer than necessary, how his long, slender fingers feel out the textures of things he touches, as though he’s experiencing those things for the very first time, and how he seems to always just _happen_ to be in the same room as you, all the time. Your only reprieve from him is your own private quarters, where no one is allowed to go unless specifically invited.

A rule he breaks within the first couple of days.

You find him standing over your dresser with a bucket of water, his eyes brightening when he sees you enter. After letting out a frustrated breath, you strip off your coat, tossing it senselessly onto your bed, and unbutton the top of your shirt. “Abel, you’re not supposed to come into the captain’s quarters unless specifically invited.”

“Oh,” he says, as though this is the first he hears about it (it’s not), “well, I filtered the water for you, as requested.”

You wait. He doesn’t move.

“Thank you,” you say, begrudgingly, “you can leave it outside the door next time.”

“It might get tipped over, then I’d have to start from scratch.” A pause, then. “And I’m getting a bit fatigued from doing this all the time.”

“Alright, fine,” you allow, knowing that water purifying _is_ a demanding chore and that you’ve been pushing him harder than he’s likely ever been before, “you can bring it straight to my quarters.”

Seemingly satisfied, he leaves, and you give yourself the sponge bath once you make sure the door is locked tight. Your hair is choppily cut and always away from your face, though you don’t spare much care to it beyond the occasional brushing. Your goal for sponge bathing is usually only dedicated to making sure everything isn’t rotting from lack of amenities, being at sea and exposed to the grimy elements can leave a body feeling… gross, for lack of a better term. Every time you dock somewhere, you take a full day for yourself to clean... _everything_ up.

Every day, right after dusk, he’s waiting in your room with a bucket of water. You don’t even know how he gets in, you’re very good at remembering to lock your door when you’re not in there. When you ask about it, sullenly, he smiles and gently reminds you that you’ve given him permission to leave the water when he’s done purifying it.

Then Abel asks to wash your hair for you.

You’re so caught off guard by the offer that it takes you a moment to fully process what he said. “I’m sorry, you’d like to what?”

“I’d like to wash your hair if you’d like,” he says, “I know how.”

You have to mull it over, like with most of his downright bizarre requests. “You’d like to wash my hair. And you know how.”

“Yes,” Abel nods, “with the powdery stuff. Back home, I would get my hair washed by- uh, and it felt nice.”

You conveniently don’t mention the part where he skipped over _who_ specifically washed his hair, and cross your arms over your chest. “And why exactly are you interested in doing that for me?”

“It’s a relaxing experience, and you look stressed.”

“Really.” You don’t believe that’s it. “And no other reason.”

“I mean, not in a bad kind of stress,” he’s backtracking now, “you’re not shambling around like the undead or anything, but this might help you with everything else.”

You give it a moment of thought, trying to come up with every single reason he might have for sidling up close to you. Does he want better rations? A cut of the bounty? Less water duty? You narrow your eyes and look him up and down, wondering if the place he comes from has the same set of _you work hard to earn_ rules and that he can’t just _flirt_ his way into a better position.

Maybe you can give him this lesson the hard way.

“Fine,” you wave your hand, sitting in front of your desk. “You can wash my hair.”

He smiles, wide, but not threateningly, more… happy? Satisfied? Pulling the bucket closer to his position as he comes back behind the chair, and runs his fingers through your hair, once. “You’re quite tense, captain.”

It’s a struggle for you to relax, your jaw usually tightly gritted, shoulders tense, and ready to fight. Still, though, you don’t think that Abel would try to do anything, even with the clause in the contract forbidding him to hurt anyone in your crew, including you. Quietly, you lean back in your chair, stretching your neck as you look up to the ceiling, hands tightly gripped on the armrests, your breathing calm and controlled as he begins.

Abel’s fingers run through your hair, soft, but firm, nails gently scratching at your scalp. It feels good, despite the fact that you’re not so sure if you enjoy this show of intimacy, but you don’t voice complaints. It’s been a while since your hair got such a thorough washing, and he seems to know what he’s doing. Section by section, he works, parting your roots away, rubbing the baking soda in with the pads of his thumbs in soft, swirling motions.

Slowly but steadily, he works his fingers down your head, his knuckles brushing against the nape of your neck. Shivers run through your spine, an odd feeling churning in your stomach. The coolness of the water as he begins to rinse your hair gives you something else to focus on other than his closeness.

You try to get your voice to work, if only to think about anything but how his skin feels against yours. “Why did you want to come with us?”

He pauses, his entire body seemingly just _stopping,_ fingers still tangled in your hair.

“If it’s because of something bad, we likely won’t care,” you try to prod, “most of us are murderers and thieves, anyway.”

“I-” his movements resume as he struggles for the words, “I didn’t want to get married.”

“Oh, that’s it?” The shadiness of his actions made you think that he committed patricide or something, not escaping an arranged marriage. “Half of my crew are dodging familial obligations, too. My second was almost sold off to a man with six wives.”

“I just couldn’t go through with it,” he’s almost defensive, though you suppose he wasn’t expecting such an anticlimactic reaction, “I didn’t even like my fiance… don’t get me wrong, she was a nice girl, but she was so-” he fumbles for the word, “dry.”

Your hairbrush isn’t something that you use beyond a couple of swipes in your hair, but Abel takes his time with it. Almost moving strand by strand, he makes his way from one end of your scalp to the other, brushing out any remnants of grease and powder, dipping your hair in water every so often to keep it soaking wet.

“There must have been an easier way for you to leave,” you say.

“None with such ease and without the high likelihood of getting caught,” he clears his throat, “I saw my chance for escape and took it.”

“That’s understandable,” you say, closing your eyes for a moment. “Are you happy with your decision?”

There’s a pause, telling you that he’s actually thinking over your question. “Work is difficult, but,” he adds quietly, “I prefer it to being an idle husband.”

You’re silent, thinking over his statement. “I can understand that. The life of a field worker wasn’t quite for me, either.”

He waits until your hair is all the way brushed out, then wraps a cloth around it to absorb the water. “May I do this again?”

Again, your suspicion flares. “Why?”

“Because I enjoy your company… and you don’t seem to pay me much mind when I’m with the other crew.”

“Jealous?” You ask, mostly joking.

“Very,” he says, and you’re not sure if he’s serious or not. “Sometimes I just want you all to myself.”

“I… suppose if you’d like to.”

“Good,” he says, “I get bored with nothing more than the water for company.”

You’re standing, rubbing the cloth into your locks to help it dry faster. “Do none of my crew interact with you?”

“I don’t think they trust me… even with the contract.”

You let out an impatient huff. “I’m sorry about that, they’ll warm up to you eventually. Or we’ll hit land first, and you’re free to go.”

There’s a long, drawn out pause before he agrees, “right.”

Washing your hair every single day would result in in _you_ getting sick of how close Abel wants to be with you every time he does it, and would leave your hair dry and brittle. The powder is suitable for sucking up the oily grease that permeates your scalp after a few days, and it’s good for a complete purge once it gets out of control, but definitely shouldn’t be used regularly. Still, he makes sure that it’s a weekly event, and every Thursday evening, he’s in your room, bucket on your desk.

You figure out quickly that he doesn’t like talking about himself. He instead seems entirely focused on you, your life as a pirate, and before, though he answers your questions in that odd, monotone voice he uses when he’s not enjoying himself. Abel also struggles to acclimate into your crew, as most of them aren’t readily accepting passengers who plan on flouncing off the moment you hit land. However, he doesn’t seem to give any indication that he _is_ planning on leaving. So you ask him outright.

“What are you going to do when we dock on land?” You ask as he slowly works his fingers into your hair.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to stay on as a member of my crew, or are you going to leave?”

He stops for a moment, all you can hear are the ripples from the water bucket as the ship slowly makes its way up and down with the waves, and his breathing.

“Are you okay?” You ask, peeping your neck a bit to get a look at him.

“I’m fine,” he reassures you, getting back to work, “I didn’t realize that I had an invite to continue on as a water purifier.”

“Oh, I guess I should have mentioned it more concretely before.” You lean back again, closing your eyes. “You’ve done more than adequate work, Abel, you’re more than welcome to stay on board and receive a cut of our bounty.”

“Really?” He asks like he can’t believe it.

“I’ll have to have my second draft up another contract, but yeah, Abel, you can stay if you’d like.”

“Say my name again,” he says, and you can hear a smile behind those words.

“What, Abel? Why?”

He lets out a satisfied sigh. “I just like it when you use my name. It sounds nice with your voice.”

You try not to snort. “Okay, whatever you say.”

Silently, he continues to work, as he usually does, parting your hair into neat little sections, going over them with a few pinches of baking soda, letting his nails gently scratch at your scalp. You’d never admit it to anyone, much less _Abel,_ but you do feel better after each of your little sessions together, whether that be because of the cleanliness, or because of the company, you’re still having an internal war with yourself over.

A part of you doesn’t really want to admit that you’ve let him get under your skin, that you’ve started to _care,_ because you’re not supposed to show favoritism towards any single person within your crew, but unfortunately… _unfortunately_ it seems that he’s growing on you, rapidly, like mold on room temperature meat that’s been left out for a few days.

“I saw you flirting with your second in command,” he says, quietly, “are you and she together?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Juliet? No, she’s great and all, but not my type. We were just joking around.”

“What about that navigator?”

“Which navigator?”

“The one with the puffy black hair.”

“Oh, you mean Alexander,” you resist rolling your eyes, “he and I are just friends.”

“What about the-”

“Are you going to go down the list of my crew members to see if I’m in a relationship with them?” You ask, almost sourly, wondering what’s gotten into him.

“Are you? In a relationship, I mean.”

You sit up, out of his reach, your wet hair dripping and soaking into your shirt. “What does it matter?”

He’s trying not to look flustered, but there’s a telling blush in his dusty blue skin. “I was just wondering, out of curiosity. You seem- uh-”

“I seem _what?”_

“Nothing.”

“No, tell me. I seem like what?”

“Like someone who can have whoever they want, when they want.” He says, almost sheepishly.

“Who, _me?”_ You think he’s joking, he _has_ to be joking, but his kind cannot lie.

He’s even more flustered now, backpedaling so hard he might snap his proverbial neck. “I just mean- um- you have this aura of confidence, captain, it exudes from you, and I thought that you might currently be… well, involved with someone.”

You squint at him, trying to see where he’s taking this. “So what? Does it matter if I’m involved or not?”

“No- no, of course not, stop looking at me like that, it was a stupid question.”

You settle back down, a tad bit tenser than you were before, though mostly from being caught off-guard by his question. Feeling like someone’s swept your legs from under you, verbal or otherwise, is uncomfortable, you never like it when someone has the upper hand. So, in the same fashion, but more casually, you ask, “what about you? Besides your fiance, have you seen anyone?”

“Not… particularly.”

“Hm, not particularly?” You do the thing where you take where the conversation is going and get there twice as fast to regain control of the situation. “No one caught your eye? You’re not allowed to take any lovers?”

“Not before-” he mumbles, something you can’t hear.

“What was that?” You ask innocently.

“That was a no.”

“Was it,” you smile serenely, “because it sounded like something about your wedding night?”

Abel sounds like he wants to throw himself into the sea. “I can’t... until the wedding night.”

“Who told you that you couldn’t have sex until the wedding night? What’d they say would happen? Hairy hands? That’s a myth, you know.” God, it never crossed your mind that he might never have been intimate before, especially with how fixated he seemed on you as if you might be his next conquest. Not his _first._ That definitely changes things.

The massaging slowly comes to a stop. “Where I’m from,” Abel says, slowly, “they have ways of making certain that it happens.”

You almost choke on your own spit. “I’m sorry, they have _what?”_

“They have ways of guaranteeing purity until the marriage night.” His voice is soft, but gruff, as though he’d rather be anywhere but here.

“That- that is so awful,” you feel pity, yes, but also empathy for a story that you’ve heard before- if in less extreme circumstances, but you’re suddenly overcome with your desire to solve other people’s problems in the hopes it might help fix yours (it never does). “Do you remember the direct wording of the curse?”

“I can’t forget it.” He sounds tired, like he’s had this conversation before. “I cannot feel the euphoria while in someone else.”

“You can’t feel euphoria _while_ inside someone else? That’s it, exactly?”

“Well, no, I cannot… spill, inside someone.” He sounds even more sheepish than before, his voice so quiet you almost don’t hear.

“That’s all?” You ask, frowning. “You can’t spill while inside someone else, but can someone else spill inside _you?”_

“No.” He says quietly.

“Alright,” it doesn’t take you too much of you to fully process and work to come to a new solution, “but if someone doesn’t _spill_ inside you,” you try not to grimace at the language used, “can you… um, spill so long as you’re not inside anyone? Like touching yourself?”

He mumbles something, you take it as a soft _yes._

“If someone enters you without spilling, do you think you might be able to try… um, the whatever?”

“I don’t know.” He looks like he hadn’t thought of it before. “Perhaps? But how would that happen?”

“Alrighty, then,” you try not to feel the heat in your cheeks, “have you ever heard about pegging?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the second part, um *checks watch* almost a year later! lmfao I remember writing this for 2020 Mermay and I wrote the second part for 2021 Faebruary. thank god Abel can be either/or

To be honest, you were expecting to spend your first day on land inside a sex shop, after all, you had _promised_ to help Abel find something he could use to find some relief. You did not, however, expect to be the expert consultant in the matter.

The little boutique is tucked away in the recesses of this island's designated red district, curious bystanders and sexually frustrated crewmen alike flocking to witness its various wares. The windows are high and open, letting a steady stream of sunlight filter through the hundreds of different phallic-shaped sculptures lining the shelves. It's the largest and most dependable store in your experience, and you plan on doing your own shopping once Abel is distracted. Or when you gather enough courage to do it in front of him.

He seems positively fascinated with all the different options, face turning a strange shade of teal as one of the clerks lets him hold the so-called _Destroyer of Bussy,_ the damn thing as long as his forearm and as thick as a mast rope. It makes his long fingers look nothing more than a child's, swallowing up his fist and palm. You put an end to that debacle, knowing full well he needs to start out small and go up from there.

As you drag Abel away from the dragon-sized dildos, he seems to quickly forget about them in lieu of the far more decorative selections. Some of the more expensive examples are secured behind display glass, locks magicked against thieves. Cock rings embedded with pearls, handcuffs made from gold, the kind of objects that can't be used for much more than a show of opulence are snuggled in red velvet for the sake of being ogled at.

"What about this?" He asks, pointing to a maroon, glass blown object, one that's curled with bumps protruding on one side, suspiciously akin to a tentacle.

"That's a little too advanced for inexperienced hands," you suggest, "let's try to stick with a basic shape for now."

"And your hands are not advanced?" Abel asks, arching his eyebrows.

You try to brush him off, your own face heating up with embarrassment, "my hands are plenty advanced, but you can't tack this one to the wall to pleasure yourself with."

"And that's what I'll be doing?" He dares to ask. "I thought you were supposed to help me with my little problem."

"I'm helping you right now," you say, reaching over his shoulder and pulling down a rubber dildo. It's not the same size as the positively enormous _Orc Cock Delight (trademark pending),_ far from it, but given Abel's slim frame and inexperience, it would be a decent start. "Here, this one's probably best."

As though inspecting its shape and sculpture like an art authenticator, he takes it from your fingers and holds it in his palm. Then, to check for its plasticity, he flicks his wrist, watching it wiggle with the movement, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. "Well," he remarks at last, "I trust your judgement on the matter."

"We can get the tentacle one too, if you like," you offer, "these are _your_ wages you're spending."

Abel has also only recently been made aware of how money actually works when you're not some pampered prince living up in a tower. After some… hazing, you think, from the rest of the crew about some misconceptions of how one can't just go to the bank and withdraw a large deposit, he's a lot more thoughtful about what he says. And definitely more frugal, too.

You see his lips purse with frustration as he has to mentally tally what he has versus what he wants to spend, but you see a breakthrough moment where he relents. "Alright," he says almost sullenly, cradling his dildo like it's an infant, "this one will do for now."

"Good," you say, glancing over the selection of glass sculptures yourself to see if anything catches _your_ eye, but you're mostly happy with what you already have. "Now we need to get you some lube."

"What for?" He asks, following close behind as you slowly make your way to the other side of the store.

"Trust me, you can't just shove something up a hole without a bit of lubricant. Ever had carpet burn before?"

By the way his face twitches, the answer's _yes._

"Same concept, but inside your body." Glass vials decorate the shelves, some small, some large, each advertising a different benefit for its use. There are various massage oils, lube, and other select liquids that claim to aid with libido and arousal… Mouth pursed, you run your fingers over the labels, trying to decide which one you'd like to use on yourself as well. "This one says it's coconut and rum flavored."

"Why is it flavored?" Abel is also looking over the bottles, brow furrowed in thought.

"Sometimes your mouth goes where the lube is, and tasting honey lemon is more palatable to some." _How does one get the taste of champagne in lube,_ you wonder, trying to figure out if you even need something infused with flavoring.

As though reading your mind, Abel asks, "which one would _you_ prefer?"

Oh, fuck him, he knows exactly what he's doing.

"Why?" You ask, testily. "Do you think I'm going to be licking it off your poor little cock?"

Abel sucks his breath in, but you see that the barb did none of the damage you wanted it to. Instead, he seems…. Excited? Aroused? "Only if you want to."

Everything inside of you ignites, but you tamper it down. Sucking your breath in to ground yourself, you gesture vaguely in his crotch direction, "wouldn't be that great for you if you can't even cum from it."

"The long row of chastity belts seem to disagree." He points to the shop's opposite side, furthest from the windows, multiple mannequins showing off the various different styles available for purchase. "Might as well see what the appeal is since I'm stuck with one."

You don't want to admit he's making sense here… but he is. Wordlessly, maintaining eye contact, you aim your finger, watching him grasp the bottle without being told twice.

"You know," you say, walking leisurely over to the apparel section of the shop, "there's a lot of flack that comes from being the captain's special whore."

"Is that what your crew thinks of me?" He asks, running his fingers over a leather whip.

"You're not particularly subtle about it."

"Only because you weren't paying attention to my advances."

 _"Only because_ I didn't want you to think I only brought you aboard for the pleasure of wrecking your virgin ass."

He snickers but doesn't say anything in response, now looking over the different options to hook his dildo onto. Though, since it's really _your_ decision, you begin poking around the mannequins yourself. Even though you wouldn't necessarily want something with all the bells and whistles, maybe one that's colored to set off your eyes? Some of the leather ones have been stained with various hues and tones.

"I just want you to know that I do already have a strap," you say, picking a new one out, "it's just not on my ship."

"So you're telling me," Abel says, almost completely serious save for that slight twitch on his mouth, "that you _don't_ fuck every single damsel in distress you come across?"

You sigh loudly, heading towards the front of the store to purchase your tiny collection of pleasure toys. "Not all of them, just the ones that ask me so nicely."

Abel hums, and you sense a trace of jealousy aimed towards your previous bedmates, but he doesn't say anything more. Once the both of you complete your purchases, hiding them in your respective satchels, you hop down the steps out of the shop. It's just the afternoon, with plenty of time left in the day, but you know that Abel is quite literally aching to try out his new toys, so you let him drag you back to the docks.

"Where are we going?" He asks in protest as you take him down to the lower decks instead of your private room.

"Do you have any idea how many people probably ran their hands over that thing before we bought it?" You're relieved to see that no one's occupying the kitchen, especially since the cook isn't a fan of people using the giant kettles to do what you're about to.

There's a barrel of water already sitting to the side, mostly for washing dishes and scrubbing the floor. You find a clean pot and fill it halfway full of the seawater, setting it on the still lit wood stove to boil. With little ceremony, you rummage through his satchel, pulling out the dildo, and plop it into the water to boil.

In the meantime, Abel seems to struggle over what he should be doing with his hands. Nervously, he folds and unfolds his fingers, weaving them together and pulling them apart, only occasionally looking you in the eye.

"Are you okay?" You ask, and he jumps.

"Y-es," he mumbles, "just excited."

"We don't have to do this today if you're-"

"I am literally begging you," he interrupts, face blushing, "to help me now. Please."

Steam begins to curl up from the pot. You nod, poking at the rubber cock with a stick, as though that will somehow speed the process. "Just a few more moments, Abel."

Once the thing is done sanitizing, and in the safety of your cabin, the door firmly locked, you can hear his breath quickening as you pull out the different objects to start experimenting with. Slowly, you pull at the front of your leather fest, loosening the laces until it's wide enough to pull off. Your nipples rise, not from cold, but from arousal, hard at the promise of shoving that false cock up his ass.

"Abel," you direct, calmly, "you need to take off your clothes."

He obeys without question, pulling his shirt up over his head and throwing it on your chair. His body has filled out slightly with muscle, no longer a wiry frame of skin and bones, but he's still not nearly as stocky as you or the rest of your crew. Anyone on this ship could lift him over their head and toss him across the deck like he weighs nothing.

Already, he's so excited that he's erect, though the head of his cock is swollen with unspelt arousal and pleasure.

"Did you ever touch yourself after the spell?" You ask, coming up close, resting your hands on his bare hips.

"Yes," he whispers, eyes almost ashamed.

"It's alright," you rub your thumbs in soothing circles right over the bump of his bone, "I'm just wondering how this works." Pause, let him think. "Did you ever um… leak precum at all?"

He blinks. "I don't understand."

You try to rephrase the question. "When you touch yourself, sometimes before you finish, a clear liquid will come out. Did that ever happen, or no?"

"No, nothing comes out." His voice is slightly raspy, you aren't sure if it's from embarrassment. "I've always had to use lotion or oils, and it would feel good for a little while. Then it would just hurt."

"And you would have to wait until it went away," you nod, as though this isn't the first time you've dealt with such a stupid, controlling and abusive curse. "But the wording is going to be our friend, here, and many males cum when being penetrated without the use of hands."

"Thank you." There's an awful lot of hope in his eyes, so you bite your lip and pray to whatever god that might hear for your success.

"Help me out of my clothes." You gloss over his adoration, feeling a tightness in your stomach.

He gets on his knees, watching you for any twitch of approval you might give, and begins to unclasp the straps on your boots—one by one. When you step out of them, you don't even have to tell him where to go next, because he's lifting your shirt up and kissing your stomach as he works your belt. Carefully, he undoes the buckle, sliding it out and opening up your waistline.

Down go your pants, then undergarments, and you take the initiative to remove your shirt yourself. Now you're also naked, standing before Abel, just two bodies open for mutual exploration. His breath quivers as you reach up and brush some hair away from his face, dragging your fingers down to cup the side of his face. Slowly, as though you both have all the time in your little shared infinity, you press your lips up against his.

This isn't the first time you've kissed. The first time was after a particularly brutal sword fight that you had managed to win with only a few scratches, Abel practically jumped on you once you had kicked your opponent overboard. That one was quick, numb with relief and over faster than it started. Now there's time, locked away from the prying eyes of your crew.

Abel has kissed before, that you can tell by the way his lips move and adjust to where you lead them. You wonder if he had done it in some hidden nook somewhere in the palace he grew up in, under cover of darkness, all hormones and drive without the promise of relief. The practice has paid off, you decide, leading him back to your bed, gently setting him down, legs spread.

"Alright," you breathe, "show me where you touch yourself."

His face is dark and blue, mouth half-open, his tongue swiping over his lips. You get the bottle of lube out, pouring some onto the palm of your hand as he slowly begins to trace the outline of his cock. Propping one of your knees up on the bed, with an arm wrapped around his shoulder, you begin to mimic his movement, rubbing the lube up the shaft and over the head. Abel winces and whimpers at how cool it is.

For encouragement, you press your mouth onto his neck, gently nipping at the skin. "You're doing so good right now, baby, it's okay."

Slowly, you cover the entirety of his cock in the lube, pumping your wrist and watching it throb and pulse between your fingers. Abel was right, nothing seems to bead out from the slit at the top, his stones even quicker to puff up and become swollen. As he arches his back, leaning towards the mattress, his hips quake and shake, but where you might expect a ribbon of white to burst out of the head, nothing happens.

You suck in your breath sympathetically rubbing the tip with your thumb to see if you can't tease anything out, but whatever cursed him is concrete and binding. When you retract your hand, he almost whines, face bright with blood, tears threatening his eyes, lower lip swollen from his teeth biting down. At this point, you think, impotence would have been the kinder option because the brief sensation of pleasure would quickly be overruled by the misery of being unable to actually spill.

"Good boy," you whisper as he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, "that must have hurt, but you're so strong for me."

He lets out a little whimper, one you swallow away with a kiss. Slowly, he lays back against your blankets, letting you straddle his waist as you nip his lips far gentler than you usually would.

"There are two ways I can take you," you say, your tits pressed up against his chest, "like this, with your legs spread out, or from behind, while you're on your hands and knees. Since this is your first time, you may pick."

He squirms beneath you, his cock painfully hard and delightfully present against your stomach. As you drum your fingers right by his ears, you can see the gears running circles in his head, carefully weighing the pros and cons of each position while so aroused his entire pelvis must feel like it's being crushed.

"Whatever you don't choose, we can do next time," you offer, hoping that might motivate him to choose a bit better.

"I-" his face becomes more flushed than it already is, "I just want to look in your eyes."

Oh, he’s _sweet,_ the little fucker. If he keeps this kind of syrupy attitude, you might just end up falling in love.

You slide back off the bed, planting yourself firmly between his legs. "Like this?"

"Yes… please." He adds the last bit like an afterthought, but he's _learning_ at least.

"Good boy," you purr, gently rubbing his thigh. "I'll put on the strap."

He watches you like you're a prized prostitute putting on a strip show for the ages, irises locked on your hands as you begin to pull at the various buckles and buttons. Carefully, you loop his choice dildo through the metallic ring centered right in front of your pelvis, tightening the straps to secure it in place. Once you're satisfied it won't fly off once you start thrusting, you grab the bottle of lube and bring it over to where Abel lies.

Pouring some out into your hand, you warn, "this is going to feel a bit strange at first. Since you're not used to it, I will move slowly, but you need to tell me if it hurts."

He nods sharply, his breath quickening as you start massaging his ass with the lube. You're careful here, wondering if it might be easier on him if his legs were restrained, one hand firmly on a thigh while the other experimentally prods at his hole.

"You're doing so well," you tell him, pushing your thumb up into his asshole while he whimpers. "You're going to take this cock so good, Abel, it's going to slide right in."

After adding a touch more of lube, you push your index and middle finger in together, making a gradual scissoring motion to stretch him out further. His breath quickens, his hands clawing at your blankets, but he doesn't say anything beyond a soft, wordless moan. Satisfied with how his body seems to be adapting to the intrusion, you add a third finger, and begin to pump in and out in a sort of thrusting motion.

"How does that feel?" You ask, watching the way his cock twitches and shudders.

"Good," he manages to choke, his eyes begging you for more.

"I think you're ready," you nod, taking the bottle of lube from the bed and tantalizingly rubbing it onto your fake cock. "Are you? Do you want me to start thrusting into you, baby?"

"Yes, please," his breathing accelerates, his face wild and pained.

You stretch his ass out, careful with the head of the dildo as you slowly push it in. Just to make it easier on him, you pull his knees up, spreading his legs out further and holding them steady while he quivers. Then, inch by inch, you keep moving forward until you've buried it to the hilt, your hips brushing up against his innermost thigh. You stay like that for a moment, allowing him to get used to the object's size and intrusion, petting his thighs right where your hands rest to offer some comfort.

"Does it hurt much?" You ask soothingly.

"Just a bit," he murmurs, wiggling a little as though trying to get comfortable, "not as much as I thought it might."

"Good," you bump your hips a bit, just so he knows what you're about to do. Still moving without a bit of urgency, you move back, pushing your hips away, watching his face as the pain transitions away into pleasure. Then, repeating the previous movement, you thrust forward, a bit quicker this time.

"Fuck," he curses, "that feels… that feels nice."

At that behest, you pick up the pace slightly, still going significantly slower than usual, but still maintaining a structured speed. "You like it, baby?"

"Yes," he breathes, "I like it."

"Good," you keep going, watching his body struggle to stay still as you begin to up the speed of your thrusts.

He raises his hands to his mouth, biting down, so he doesn't cry out. You feel his thighs spasm and shake beneath your fingers, his body rolling up against yours as though silently begging for more. His eyes are shut tight, brow furrowed, a strange expression twitching at his face like he's experiencing a sensation that he doesn't know is positive or negative.

"I think," he gasps, his hips thrusting in their own accord, "I- It's-"

A thick, white spray of liquid shoots out of his cock, flying high and landing on his stomach. It doesn't stop there, though, seemingly a lifetime's worth of unspelt cum trying to escape while it can, a thick, hot layer erupting out and dripping down on his waist in tandem to your thrusts. You don't stop, either, especially not when he cries out, holding his legs firmly in place as he squirms and sobs with pleasure. Only once his cock falls limp do you stop, pulling the dildo out, and a river of lube drips down his ass.

He's shaking, as though experiencing some kind of awakening. As he props himself up on his elbows, he looks down, noticing the ribbons of cum that have accumulated on his chest and pelvis, then at you. After he sees some on his hand, he _licks it,_ not to be coy, not to be sexy, but with the general curiosity of someone who has never tasted cum in his life.

"It's salty," he says, blankly, voice void of either dashed or met expectations. Like he legitimately has no idea what he's supposed to think.

And then he begins to cry.

You're so shocked by the action that you just stand there, dildo still in hand, as tears fall out of his eyes and dribble down his cheeks. Then you snap into action, wiping your sticky fingers on an available towel before threading them through his hair, pulling him close in an embrace, ignoring the cum that's now on your skin. His face is wet against your chest, his arms wrapping around your torso in a tightening hug, chest shuddering.

"You did so well," you say soothingly, petting his hair as he tries to get himself under control, "I'm so proud of you, Abel, you really did so wonderfully for your first time. You can cry if you need to, I know this was probably very difficult."

Before you know it, you're laying down with him, his body pressed up against every single curve and crevice of yours. His face is up against your chest, arms around your waist, and you hold his head in the crook of your elbow. While his chest shudders and shakes, you whisper and murmur a myriad of encouragement and praise, but you think that's only adding fuel to his emotional fire.

So you let him process his state of mind, remaining present throughout so he has someone to lean on. After a while, he quiets down, but he makes no motion to either sit up or start round two. To be entirely honest, both of you are probably done for the day, especially with how he's handling it, but you can't walk around with stale cum on your body. Once his breathing evens out, you untangle your limbs from him, waking him up from a shivering nap.

"Hey," you say softly, poking at him, "we need to clean off."

"R-right," he sniffs, rubbing his eyes, "I-I'm sorry, that was-"

"Don't apologize," you say, almost sharply, "that must have felt very intense, and you have a right to express your emotions."

He kisses you, slowly, lazily, and you cradle his face in your hands.

"We only need to wipe off a portion of this gunk," you say, unbuckling the strap from your waist, "I think that tonight we can spend some extra money and time in a bathhouse."

"What do you mean?" He asks, glancing down at the mess he spilt on his skin.

"There's this absolutely incredible bathhouse up the mountain, right where a hot spring is. The water is supposed to be three times as effective for cleaning and rejuvenating your skin or whatever, I think you deserve a little extra pampering tonight."

"Really?" He looks like he's about to cry again.

"Come on," you pull him up until he's sitting, "let's first get marginally cleaner, so it doesn't look like we've participated in a street-side orgy."

As he pours a bit of powdery soap in your tub of scrubbing water, you begin to unbraid his hair, brush in hand, running your fingers through his green tangles to smooth out the evidence of sex. He sponges his chest and torso clean, using smelling oils to hide the scent of cum as you begin to twist and knot his hair again.

"You handled this size very well for the most part," you say, using a pick to sharply part a section of his hair away, "I think that you might be ready to upgrade in a few months, we could get that little glass one that you wanted so bad."

"I would like that," he rasps, face just as flushed as when you bottomed out inside him.

Once you clean yourself off, you dress and leave, Abel in tow. The bathhouse is a large building, overtaking a fair amount of the presumably dead volcano that overlooks the bay. You've been there before, most of your crew has, but it's the sort of place that's so far from the docks that it's a hassle to get to. By the time you're up the cliffs, Abel is panting like he's never walked this far before.

You pay the teller, not bothering to make Abel take care of his own entrance fee. A wave of wet, sticky heat hits your face when you walk into the large marble atrium, the steam from the hot springs thick in the enclosed area. There's a convenient marble map on the wall, the building's outline labeled with thick letters.

"Where do you want to go first?" You ask, mentally wondering how they make the currents for the so-called _wonderous whirlpool._

He points to one of the private pools, the side of his mouth twitching up.

"Those costs-"

"I can pay," he says, patting his satchel.

Okay, he wants to play games, you can get on that level. So you shrug, and follow him down the hallway, down the stairs to the long row of private rooms. After paying the attendant down _there,_ you pick out a random section and close the wooden door behind you for some much-needed privacy.

Abel is already stripping bare, throwing himself in the water once naked. A window lets a small amount of light through its wooden blinds, only bright enough to see his outline. Once you're also undressed, you slip into the water, sighing with relief at both the heat and the scent of the oils. You settle on a curved section, probably explicitly built for laying on, and slowly begin to scrub at your skin with a bar of pumice you brought.

Oh, and Abel seems to be enjoying himself _a lot,_ floating on his back, face staring up at the ceiling. He looks like he's in a faraway place, mouth in a soft, genuinely content smile. You let him be in his own little world for as long as he needs to be, satisfied with cleaning the last remaining hints of sex off your body while waiting for him to come back to you.

"You know," he says finally, rising out from the water and coming close, "despite everything else, I was very spoiled as a prince."

"No," you deadpan, "really?"

"Yeah- wait," he sniffs out your sarcasm much better now, "I mean, yes, it's probably undeniably obvious."

"Supremely so," you say, remembering how another captain asked you if you were holding Abel hostage because he was too goddamn refined compared to the rest of your crew.

"I was always told that I wasn't in a place to complain," he angles your body so he can play with your hair, "and I suppose in some aspects, that was true, but now I know that everything that happened beneath that roof, golden gilded or no, was… not healthy."

"No, Abel, I can't say that it was anything remotely so." Every time you hear about some aspect of his childhood, you're filled to the brim with murderous rage on his behalf.

"But at least now I can say that after living in the quote _real world,_ I most definitely prefer this to that." You feel his fingers twist your hair into braids. "For example, your crew doesn't follow your commands because they're afraid of what will happen if they don't, they follow your commands because you've proven to them that you're a trustworthy and capable leader."

You open your mouth, but he interrupts you.

"Luck has nothing to do with it, either. I saw you dive after a freed slave in open water because she couldn't swim. That's not luck, that's courage, and those are the kinds of actions that your people take to heart."

"I guess," you don't like accepting heartfelt compliments, especially when you think you don't deserve them.

"Which is why," he finishes, pulling you closer, "I trusted you enough to ask you for help."

"And are you satisfied with the help I provided?" You ask, remembering how much cum he had spilt from that one single session.

"Oh, yes," he purrs, seemingly completely recovered from his near mental breakdown. "I'd give you a five-star review, but I don't think I like to share."

"Really? I garner that well of a reputation?" You ask, watching his hand slide between your legs.

"I want to thank you," he says, mouth on your ear, "but I need you to show me how. Teach me where to touch you?"

You suck in a lungful of steam, watching his long, elegant fingers slowly draw little circles on your thighs. "You're going to be walking all the way back with an erection."

"But you would like that," he accuses, entirely correct, "watching me walk back while so fucking hard I may start crying."

You believe you will, realizing that the idea of him trying to keep his fucking shit together while out in public does has some kind of appeal. So you remove yourself from his lap, hauling your body up onto the cool marble floor. Trying to seem enticing, you spread your legs for him, bringing your fingers down to offer up a clearer view of your entrance and clit. Breathing harder, you say, "Remember when we kissed?"

He nods solemnly.

"Similar concept, but here. Use your tongue and mouth."

With reverence, he places a hand on both your thighs, sinking down to his knees. Of all the things you've noticed about him, one of his better qualities is how he's such a fast learner. He kisses your lips as instructed, eyes flickering up to make sure you approve of his actions. When you nod encouragingly, he continues, opening his mouth to start licking at your pussy.

You lean back, pushing your weight onto your hands, lifting up a leg and placing it on his shoulder. "That's good Abel, just like that."

He presses his face further into your slick skin, kissing and sucking on the dark puckered flesh. While his tongue is only slightly rougher than you would have expected, it's not… painfully so, no, it's more like an added texture you didn't know would feel good. Up and down, he licks, capturing a bit of your opening between his teeth and gently pulling, if only to see your reaction.

To help him a little more, you push two of your fingers between your legs, finding your clit. "Here, Abel, lick me here, baby."

The obedient little thing, he does, finding it with ease now that you've directed him. He kisses it with reference, like it's a thing to be worshipped, taking your clit between his lips and sucking. When you hiss with pleasure, his eyes turn elated, like the two of you just shared an intimate secret, and he does it again.

"Fuck, Abel," you gasp, trying to find words of encouragement, "you lick my pussy so good, baby, it's like you were made for me."

"Does that make me your little whore?" He asks, voice thick with arousal.

"That makes you my _special_ little whore," you correct, tucking a flyaway hair behind his ear.

He smiles lazily, pressing his mouth back between your legs, returning to work with more enthusiasm than before, flicking his tongue against your clit. Then, as though mimicking how you had opened him up earlier, he slowly presses a thumb through your slit, rubbing your inner, slick ridges. Fuck, he's a clever little bastard, and by the way you buck in his mouth, he's going to know it, too.

The pressure in your stomach grows, a wave of warm arousal dripping out of your core. Abel licks it all up like a seasoned prostitute, pulling you closer to the edge so gravity shifts your body down. He presses up, mouth and nose grinding up against your clit, now, adding far more pressure than before. You swallow thickly, trying to find the words to praise him, but thoughts start escaping your mind, replaced by pleasure.

"Good," you manage to croak out, "that feels good."

You can feel the smugness emanating off of him from making you speechless, his boldness only growing as you further spiral. As your hips start jerking, your thighs shaking, he continues to eat your pussy like he's a starving animal, the sounds from his open-mouthed sucking driving you positively mad.

It doesn't hit you all at once; instead, your orgasm comes in waves, each more volatile and pleasurable than the last. Abel must have sensed its arrival, locking his arms around your hips to hold you in place as you buck into his mouth. Nor does he deem you worthy of mercy, either, showing you every amount of vigor and determination you offered him barely hours before.

When you've ground it out, only plagued by a few aftershocks, he pulls away, a long trail of saliva and cum connecting his mouth to your core. And he smiles, he _smiles,_ heaving for breath, lips flushed and swollen.

Slowly, you slide back into the water, legs weak and still shaking, right onto his lap. True to your prediction, he's hard, cock upright in the water, but he doesn't seem too bothered as you straddle his waist. You kiss him, taking things nice and slow, tasting the scented oils and sulfuric water along with your pleasure on his tongue.

"Did I do good?" He asks, digging for more praise.

But you give it to him, he deserves it after this kind of day. "Yes, Abel, you ate my pussy like a fucking slut."

His breathing quickens in excitement.

"I don't think the whores down in the red district could eat me out like that, and you did it on your first try." You pet the side of his face, running your fingertips over his pointed ears. "My clever, sweet little prince."

He nuzzles his face between your breast as you play with one of his braids.

"I think I'm going to keep you," you muse aloud, "would you like that? Would you like to be my bedmate from now on?"

His throat bobs as he swallows thickly. "Yes."

"Good," you whisper, tracing the path of his spine, "I think I can buy you that glass dildo, after all."


End file.
